Title: Unflattering PositionsFandom: Dragon AgeCharacters: Fenris ♂, Anders ♂Rating:E (L2N0S4V1D1)Warnings: Dysfunctional assholes are dysfunctional, combat waltz, the internet is for pornNotes: For MaverikLoki. In the middle of a celebration of Hawke’s awesomeness, held, of course, at the Hanged Man, Fenris takes the opportunity to complain about why mages have no business being heroes. Anders takes offence, less to the content and more to the disruption, and ‘assists’ Fenris out of the room. Somehow this ends in Anders on his knees, and some very uncomfortable revelations about Fenris.

They were at the Hanged Man, and Hawke was buying rounds again. Rich, obnoxious Hawke, hero of the Fereldan refugees. There were days Anders wondered how that mouth hadn’t got him dumped in the bay. But, just like the rest of them, Hawke had come over on a boat, with nothing, and clawed his way back up to the wealth and status his mother’s family had one held, locally. And he used it for shit like this. Buying beer for everyone in this Lowtown shithole. (Admittedly, also for buying out half that deathtrap mine and improving conditions. Sometimes, for funding the only clinic these people had, which Anders had a personal interest in, of course. He’d have to work his charming smile on Hawke, again, later — he was running out of embrium.)

And so the children of Ferelden were saved by mages. Again. It was becoming a trend, in recent years. And it made some amazing propaganda, honestly. It just wasn’t enough, and he started to wonder if anything ever would be. Seven hundred years of bullshit was a lot to overturn.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts and the practical art of not being nearly drunk enough for this, that he almost missed Fenris fucking starting. The elf was incorrigible, and if he got drunk enough, he had no sense left to stop him. Anders could relate. It’s how he got dragged back to the tower, after his first ill-prepared escape, drunk and in chains, with a Templar’s dirty sock in his mouth. The inevitable excess of vomiting was a flavour improvement, at that point.

"This is how it starts. A mage gets power. Becomes a hero of the people. And then no one can ever get the power back out of the family. And then they turn to demons and blood magic, to keep their place, to keep down any who oppose them."

"Sit the fuck down, Fenris." Anders kicked a chair toward him, as a suggestion, and the elf winged a bottle at his head.

Fortunately, the bar was far too filled with revelry, for anyone to notice the nearly palpable waves of irritation emanating from the back corner. Anders put down his tea and stood up, towering, even as he did not yet raise his eyes from the table.

"The mage buys you wine, and you insult his family and throw the bottle at his boyfriend?" Anders asked, quietly, noticing that the shadow he cast across the table was much wider than his actual shoulders. All these years of being a little too tall, and he was still coming to terms with the idea that it might be intimidating. Definitely not to the elf, though. The idea of Fenris being intimidated by anything was laughable, and twice as laughable that the cause should be a skinny mage. No, he just meant to throw Fenris over his shoulder and carry him outside, if he was going to be a dick. Nobody needed to put up with this shit, tonight, and at least Anders was sober enough not to throw a punch. Actually, he was dead sober, which was really the last thing he wanted to be, in a room full of drunken revellers.

"I throw the bottle at his filthy, demon lover. You smell like the sewer you crawled out of, abomination." Fenris’s eyes were too wide, and that grimace wasn’t the easy smile of guaranteed destruction that so often graced his face.

"Careful, now, someone might think that was envy," Anders taunted, stepping out from behind the table.

Fenris hit him as he passed in front of the stairs, a sudden rush and full-body collision, the weight of the impact carrying them both up a few steps, and Anders turned, using the force to heave Fenris up a few steps more. Upstairs would at least be out of the room. Hawke didn’t need to deal with this.

A few more shoves turned into ballroom dance moves, and Anders forced Fenris to the top of the stairs. That was the thing about Fenris — he understood how to fight, he understood it well, but he wasn’t sure what to do with someone who didn’t swing back and didn’t dodge, especially when he was drunk. And that was something Anders had learnt to take advantage of. Fenris wouldn’t get glowy, if he didn’t use magic.

A lunge, and Anders turned with it, fingers wrapping around Fenris’s wrist, the other hand catching his waist, as they took a couple of revolutions down the hall. "You’re looking lovely, this evening, Fenris. The drunken glow really brings out the loathing in your eyes."

That, Anders was willing to admit, as his back slammed open the door to a thankfully unoccupied room, might have been a little too far for his own good. But, he’d never been very good at his own good.

"Funny," Fenris drawled, hands gripping Anders’s coat so tight his gauntlets creaked, as he slammed the mage against the wall, "I wasn’t sure you could tell the difference between actual disgust and your own paranoid delusions."

"I’m still not sure you can tell the difference between a mage and a magister," Anders shot back. Cracks about his sanity were cheap, these days, and if he paid them any mind, he’d probably lose what mind he still had.

"The only difference is opportunity," Fenris snarled. "And unlike you, I’m not crazy. I may be a little optimistic, but you, you’re fucking nuts."

"You know what, Fenris, you’re right. I don’t think you’re nuts. I don’t think that does you justice at all." Anders smiled, chin tipping up as he looked down his nose at Fenris, who was much too close for this to be safe at all. "You’re not nuts, you’re a rainbow-coloured ass piñata of nuts, and right now, you’re a drunk rainbow-coloured ass piñata of nuts."

Fenris squinted drunkenly up at Anders for a very long several seconds. "I’m not even Antivan."

Anders found himself once again seized with what the Warden-Commander had called a ‘terrible nervous laugh’. His whole body shook, as he laughed, Fenris still holding him tight enough against the wall that his shoulder blades ached.

One of Fenris’s hands released the front of Anders’s coat, bits of feather floating out of the gauntlet joints, as it lashed up and seized Anders’s hair, instead, pulling the mage down and to the side. Anders bent and twisted, but he would not kneel. Fenris finally wrapped a leg around Anders’s thigh and stomped on the top of his calf. That worked. Anders went down on one knee, and Fenris jerked his head back by the hair.

"What right," Fenris demanded, glaring down into the mage’s face, as the expression shifted from fear to self-destructive smugness. "What right have you, abomination, to be so beautiful, when all other things about you are loathsome?"

"I don’t know about rights, but the Templars did always say I was gorgeous when terrified. I hope it’s doing a little something for you, because right now, you look like you’re either going to fuck me or kill me." The self-destructive smile spread into a dangerous grin. "Or both. Possibly not in that order."

"I do not fuck corpses, you impotent pseudo-magister."

"Big words for a drunk." Anders swallowed, stretching his neck. He could do this all night. He’d done worse. "I guess corpses wouldn’t put up enough of a fight, for you."

It would have been difficult to miss the revulsion that washed over Fenris’s face, and Anders seized the opportunity.

"Stop trying to do permanent damage, and you’ll notice I don’t put up much of a fight, either."

"You’re beautiful garbage," Fenris said it like the idea was painful, which it probably was, all things considered.

"Absolutely. But, I’m beautiful garbage that can make you forget your own name." For the moment, Anders looked like he’d made peace with whatever came next. It would be on Fenris to explain it to Hawke, whichever way this went.

"I don’t even have a name," Fenris muttered, reflectively, eyes settling on the thin space between them.

"You’ll notice I included death in my predictions for the evening. No. This isn’t about whether you kill me. It never is. And one day, maybe you will." Anders shrugged, but only the shoulder Fenris wasn’t still holding on to moved. "It’s not even about you starting in about Hawke becoming a hero. You’d be a hero to these people, too, if you quit sitting in the corner and drunkenly sulking. You’ve got the wine, but if you sit next to Varric, you’d get the women and the song, too."

"I have no use for women or song."

"Of course you do. You’re a free man, Fenris. The offers are yours to accept, when they come, and if you take a few inconsequential things, smile at a few people, they’ll start offering things you actually want. People feel good when they can reward a hero. They feel good when they can spend time in the company of heroes. And people who feel good about you are people who are less likely to sell you down the coast."

"People who consider me a ‘hero’ would also know who I am. It would be increasingly difficult to be invisible — which you know well." Fenris shifted his hand, and Anders twitched, hair caught in the gauntlet.

"Yes, but when the wrong sort of people are looking for me, no one’s ever heard of me."

"You still haven’t answered the question."

"I offer you this because I find you comely and quite thrilling, and because I really think a good fuck would improve your outlook on life." Anders almost looked serious.

"Comely and thrilling?" Fenris looked offended.

"Hey, you called me beautiful garbage. The least I could be was honest with you."

"You are trying my patience, abomination. No one uses the word ‘comely’ seriously."

"I just did. Long, strong legs; those big, green eyes that tell stories even when the rest of you is still; the way your right ear twitches when you’re annoyed — I see it all. I’d say you were handsome, but you’re not. Handsome men look like Hawke. You’re elegant, exquisitely lovely."

"And you say this while I have you on your knees, with your throat bared to me." Fenris tried to read the shiver that ran through Anders. "You fear me, don’t you."

"Exactly how stupid do I look?" Anders kept his breathing slow and concentrated on not passing out. This was a poor position for his head to be in, for so long, and the way Fenris kept pulling wasn’t helping.

Fenris raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth.

"Don’t answer that." Anders tried to sigh, but the sound came out as a multi-tonal rasp. "Yes, I do. And right now, I should. But, it’s still not why I’m offering."

"Do you think you can win me, with your flesh? That I will somehow think more of you?"

"Fenris, you can’t imagine how little I care what you think of me. We wouldn’t be here now, if I cared, because letting you drag me to my knees in some slummy pub, when I’m not even drunk is not the impression I’d want to make." The grin that split Anders’s face was that same gloriously self-destructive one from earlier. "So, throw me down and ravish me, or I’ll buy you a couple rounds at the Rose. Either way, a good, hard fuck would do wonders for that headache and the stiffness in your shoulder."

Healer. Right. Of course the abomination knew. Fenris’s fists clenched tighter, as he stepped closer, thigh pressing against the front of the mage’s shoulder. "And if I’m too much for you? What then?"

"Then you get to tell Hawke you killed me with your dick." Anders choked out a raspy laugh.

"I will not hear you speak of this," Fenris said, finally, fingers uncurling from Anders’s coat, to pick open the laces on his own leggings.

The door was still open, from where they’d hurtled through it, but Anders didn’t point it out. It probably wouldn’t stay closed after that impact, anyway. "Do I look like I’m in a flattering enough position to talk about it?"

"One can never be certain, with you," Fenris drawled, dropping his flaccid length across Anders’s face.

Anders flicked his tongue against it. "You’re going to have to give back my neck, if you want me to suck that. I can’t do it bent back like this."

Fenris let go of Anders’s hair, terribly aware of the inherent danger in this choice, but Anders only cracked his neck, and then took Fenris into his mouth. At first, Fenris found himself aware of every subtlety of the situation — the way the room smelled, the crisp bite of the breeze that leaked through one of the walls, the way the abomination did not seem in any way lessened by being on his knees with a dick in his mouth. It wasn’t even pride or that caustic smugness the mage got, when he was pushed, it was just a warm, simple calm, like he was just as happy doing this as sitting downstairs with his tea. Maybe moreso.

And then Anders began to hum his contentment and groan his pleasure, tongue pressed against the flesh in his mouth, and Fenris’s world shrank to the heat in his core and the need to stay upright. His eyes took on a distant look and his breathing slowed, as his weight shifted to a more stable balance, now that he no longer expected to move from this spot. Fenris expected the mage was skilled — certainly the sensations were compelling — but he hadn’t much by which to judge. If this settled him, he would not admit it. This, he knew. Taking the advice of a mage. Taking the mouth of a mage.

Still soft, he found himself drawn out between those chapped lips — a pleasant roughness against his skin. And then Anders raised his eyes, looking concerned, and Fenris braced himself for more blithering stupidity.

"You don’t seem to be enjoying this much. Is there something else I should be doing?"

"No, mage. You are wrong. Just suck."

"Just the drink, then?" Anders asked.

"It is not the drink. I am not displeased." Fenris’s fingers twitched, the sound of the claws against his palm much more the warning than the sensation he couldn’t quite feel.

"If it’s not me and it’s not the drink, what — Oh. … No."

Fenris watched the horror break across Anders’s face as the mage put it together. He would be right. Fenris knew he would be right, and he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t even think. He couldn’t think. His left hand leapt out and the back of it cracked across the mage’s cheek. The other hand gripped his own face across the eyes, shaking, clutching his temples between the ball of his thumb and the second joint of his middle finger, not to dig the claws into himself. For a long moment, time stood still.

"Fenris? Do you want me to stop?"

"No." His tone brooked no argument. Or at least that was what he hoped, but knowing this abomination…

Fenris’s thigh vibrated, tensely, but he was pleasantly surprised as Anders’s mouth closed around him, again. No argument. No taunts. And the mage had made no move to heal himself. It was these little things that unnerved him. But, now was not the time for that. Now was the time to lose himself in the dance of that tongue across his flesh, the way the healer moaned every time he swallowed, the way the heat coiled in the base of him.

Fenris’s hand stretched out again, this time settling against Anders’s hollowed cheek, dragging his claws against the stubble. Anders turned his head a bit, presenting his jaw, as he continued to suck, lick, and make the most delightful sounds. Delightful in the way they rippled through Fenris, swirling and almost serpentine.

His other hand braced against the healer’s shoulder, balancing him, as his legs began to shake. Not just a twitch of panic, this time, but the battering gale of pleasure that weakened his knees. He was still surprisingly stable, all things considered, not that he would know.

"Venhedis," Fenris choked out, leaning harder on Anders’s shoulder. "Fasta vass." The muscles in his legs seemed to sing out, instead of burn, and the brands lit all down his body. "Oh, mage, healer, Anders!"

Fenris arched back, cradling the mage’s face in his hands. He didn’t ask when his other hand had moved. It didn’t matter. The serpent of fire between his hips uncoiled and he felt a pulse start like a second heartbeat, as it raced out of him. Anders swallowed again and again, accepting it, almost greedily drinking it out of him.

Finally, the throbbing slowed, fell back into time with his heartbeat, and shed its power. Fenris gripped the floor with his toes and shifted his balance, pulling himself back upright. He brushed the hair out of the healer’s face, with a decidedly neutral look on his own. He hoped. He checked to be sure he’d stopped glowing, as he let go of Anders’s face, looking at himself, instead of the healer.

"Thank you," Fenris said, quietly, re-fastening his leggings and straightening his armour. "Perhaps you are good for something, after all."

"Any time." Anders rose from his knees much more gracefully than he’d gone down. "No one has to know. Just, maybe, a little less throwing me around like a rag doll, first, next time?"

The corner of Fenris’s mouth curled. "You started it."

"I did not! You threw a bottle at me!" Anders’s hand flashed as he rubbed it over his face and the back of his neck, taking care of the worst aches. "And I’m good for plenty of things. You just haven’t explored my vast array of talents."

"If there is anything else at which you are as good as you are at this, I may make it my avocation to seek it out," Fenris conceded, finally raising his eyes to look at Anders. "This…"

"I can guess. Not worried about it." Anders brushed the dirt off his legs.

"No, can you…" Fenris stared into a corner of the room, like he was checking for spiders. "Can you fix it?"

"I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. I’m not trying until you tell me the whole story, and I’m not asking for it." Anders ran out of dust to brush and examined a mural on the opposite wall. "You tell me when, and I’ll do what I can."

"But, for now… until then… if I ask, you’ll do that again?"

Anders laughed. "Yes, I’ll do it again. Andraste’s tits, I’ll do it five times a day, if you want it. You taste exactly as good as you smell, you incredible bastard."

Fenris refused to sniff himself, with the mage standing there, but being himself, he was largely unaware of his usual scent. "Let us go back downstairs, before someone notices we’re both gone, and Isabela leaps to revolting conclusions."

"Like what actually happened, which is only revolting if Isabela is talking about it," Anders agreed, listening for the footsteps behind him, as he stepped out into the hall. The party was still loud, and Hawke was singing again. No one had seen them go, no one had seen them return. The revelry would go on.

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Ywain Penbrydd writes mountains of crappy fic. These stories are now written here, where he has the ability to filter them for suck before releasing them into the wild. Occasionally, he also makes icons, banners, and other art-garbage.

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